Authors: Unknown
Word had come before dawn from farmers in the surrounding countryside, fleeing before a vast, dark tide of men and machines. The Mamluks were coming. Tripoli’s citizens were woken to the frenetic clanging of bells, too early to be for Prime. They watched in dread as the Mamluk force appeared and lined up outside their walls. That afternoon the siege had begun.
The southeastern walls were the weakest part of the fortifications, and it was here that the Mamluks were concentrating their efforts. After the initial confusion and panic, troops were armed and hastily positioned by the various communities: Templars, Hospitallers, Venetians, Genoese, Pisans, French. Houses were requisitioned and turned into guardposts, armories and stores. Huge sacks of sand, hauled from the beach, were lined up to counter the spread of fires as the naphtha barrels sailed over the walls and crashed down on rooftops in balls of flame. Mangonels and trebuchets were ranged along the ramparts. Some hadn’t been used in years, the wood rotten, useless. These were taken down for the barricades being erected at the city gates, against the continuous booming punches of the Mamluks’ massive battering ram. Crossbowmen took the place of the broken engines, their uniforms dusty, nostrils and mouths smoke-blackened.
That morning, troops on the walls, hunkered down against the volleys of arrows strafing up from the Mamluk lines, had watched, confused and troubled, as the great Venetian war galleys slowly turned and glided out of the harbor. The banners of San Marco caught and unfurled in the wind, fluttering smaller with every turn of the oars. The word went around quickly. Venetian officials had ordered the evacuation of their citizens. Venice was leaving. This started a general panic among the people of Tripoli, and since the morning, a growing number of citizens, carrying anything they could, had hastened down to the harbor, where now an almost continuous stream of galleys, fishing boats and merchants’ vessels were sailing out. Others, who couldn’t secure boats for themselves and their families, strapped children to their backs and swam desperately to the small island of Saint Thomas, which rose out of the sea just off the peninsula. Camps were being set up there, people said. Many more, however, stayed, trusting in God and the strength of their soldiers. They didn’t know that in their midst an unseen threat was just waiting for an opportunity.
THE MAMLUK CAMP, OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF TRIPOLI, 1 APRIL A.D. 1289
Kalawun stood watching the stones fly up, one after the other, to smash against the walls. The sky was overcast, the air stagnant. Over the city hung a fog of dust and smoke. Once in a while, a stone would crash through a section of walkway and men would be crushed, or tossed from the walls. Kalawun wanted to turn around and escape the scene in the cover of his pavilion, to lie down and close his eyes against the pounding in his head and the pounding of the stones. But he made himself stay. His face pale, hands clenched at his sides, he fixed his eyes on the assault of Tripoli. It was his order that had brought this about. He wouldn’t allow himself to hide from that. He would face it; the knowledge that this didn’t have to be. He would suffer it; the seeping, choking guilt that every single man, woman and child that had died and was dying and would die inside those walls died because he had commanded it.
And he shouldn’t have done so.
He should have done more to prevent this: should have opened diplomatic channels with Tripoli, or Acre; entered into negotiations; threatened action. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had marched on Tripoli at the head of his army, not because it was the only option or because he believed it was right. He had done so because he was afraid. He was afraid of his men’s response to his unwillingness to act, afraid of relinquishing his position or even his life, and he was afraid of losing the respect of his son. He had lost Ali and Aisha. He couldn’t bear the thought of giving up Khalil. Tripoli was a trade-off; for the fall of the city, he would regain the approval of his court. But with every stone that was hurled against the walls, he felt the peace he had spent half his life struggling to build crumble a little more.
“My lord.”
Kalawun turned to see his son approaching with Amir Dawud. Behind them strolled the Venetian, his gaze on the battered walls. As Benito di Ottavio turned, Kalawun saw that the good half of his face was eagerly expectant. He felt bitterness, sour and sick inside him, and focused instead on his son.
Khalil was clad in black brocaded robes, shot through with scarlet thread, a glittering coat of mail beneath. Under his arm he carried a silver helmet, and a saber hung from his sword belt at each hip. He looked every inch the warrior prince. “Nasir and his men are in place opposite the northeastern gate, my lord,” he told Kalawun. “They are hidden and will not be seen until it is too late. Benito believes the signal will come soon. Most of the defenses are now concentrated in the southeastern quadrant. The city is suitably distracted by the bombardment.”
Kalawun’s eyes flicked to the Venetian and that self-satisfied expression. “If this plan fails, di Ottavio, I will hold you personally responsible for every man I lose.”
Angelo Vitturi’s composure didn’t waver. “I promise you, my lord, you will be victorious. My men will obey my instructions.”
There was a distant crack and a roar as the top section of the Bishop’s Tower collapsed. A triumphant shout went up from the Mamluks around the
mandjanik
responsible for the stone that had caused the damage.
“We may not even need your men if this keeps up,” murmured Kalawun.
Angelo’s smile widened, the cloth that covered half his face stretching to reveal the riddle of scars beneath. “I may not be a general, my lord, but even I can see that it would take weeks to bring down those walls. With my help, you will take Tripoli in a day.” He cocked his head. “I presume our deal still holds true?” Kalawun said nothing and Angelo’s smile dropped away. “My lord? We had a contract.” He flung a gloved hand east toward a line of scrubby hills. “I have forty wagons waiting to take slaves into Mongolia. I have arranged a buyer for them. Will you now renege on your promise?”
“No,” said Kalawun. He had to force the words out. “Our deal is done.” His gaze swept to Dawud. “I have a meeting with two of my governors, Amir. I will be in my tent. Have one of your men alert me when the signal comes.” He headed for the red and gold pavilion, which rose majestically above the rest of the camp.
Khalil followed him. “My lord.”
Kalawun didn’t look at him. “What is it?”
“Father, wait.” Khalil put his hand on Kalawun’s arm as he entered the pavilion. “Please.”
Kalawun stopped.
“I wanted to say,” began Khalil. He looked away, then back at Kalawun. “I am proud of you,” he finished. When Kalawun said nothing, he bowed. “I will take my place and await the signal.”
“Be careful, Khalil,” said Kalawun suddenly, planting a hand on his son’s shoulder. He was about to say something further when he caught sight of three Mamluks standing at the foot of the royal dais. A fourth man was pinned between two of them, held by the upper arms. His nose was bloodied. Kalawun drew in a sharp breath.
“What is it, Father?” said Khalil, frowning at the prisoner.
Kalawun found his voice. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Go to your place.” Leaving his son, he moved to the soldiers and their captive. “What is this?” he asked, forcing his gaze from the prisoner.
“My Lord Sultan,” said the third Mamluk with a deep bow. He held a pack and a belt, from which hung a short sword. “We are here to see Amir Kamal. We were told that he would be meeting with you shortly.” He looked at the captive. “We were patrolling the perimeter when we caught this man trying to enter our camp. He pretended to be one of us, but when asked he could not give the name of his superior. We think he is a spy, perhaps from the city. We have brought him to Amir Kamal for interrogation.”
Kalawun paused, then strode toward the entrance to his private quarters. “Bring him.”
The soldiers looked at one another uncertainly, but not daring to question the sultan, they hauled the prisoner after him.
Kalawun passed through an opening in the thick cloth. Several eunuchs were busy arranging the interior for his afternoon meal. He pointed to a couch. “Put him there.”
The soldiers pushed the captive roughly down. “Shall we restrain him, my lord?” asked one.
“There is no need.” Kalawun didn’t take his eyes off the man. “Leave me. I will question him myself.”
The soldiers bowed tentatively and backed away.
“And you,” said Kalawun to the eunuchs and the third soldier, still carrying the prisoner’s sword and pack. “Leave his things and go.” He waited until they had left, then his face, which until now had been an expressionless mask, hardened. “Why did you come here?”
Will rose from the couch. “To stop you from making a terrible mistake. You have to call off this siege, my lord. Now.”
Kalawun gave a bark of cold laughter. “Call off the siege?” His eyes narrowed. “And why should I when
your
people plot against me!” He raised his fist at Will. “Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you tell me the Genoese were planning to attack Alexandria?”
“Because they weren’t, my lord,” replied Will roughly, wiping his bloodied nose. “Whatever Angelo told you was a lie.”
“I know of no Angelo.”
“Benito di Ottavio. That’s what he is calling himself now. His real name is Angelo Vitturi. We thought he was dead, killed years ago on the grand master’s orders. My lord,” said Will, thrusting a hand toward the city beyond the tent, where the muffled thuds of the stones could be heard. “The man whose lies have brought you here is the very same man who was responsible for the attempted theft of the Black Stone.”
“No,” said Kalawun adamantly, “that isn’t possible. No,” he repeated loudly, holding up his hand as Will went to speak. “It wasn’t just his word. I would not have come here on that alone. What do you take me for? I had reports! Reports that the Genoese were building a fleet, reports that suggested Tripoli was planning a war. My generals did not doubt it!” He walked away, shaking his head.
“Your generals didn’t want to doubt it,” answered Will sharply. He followed Kalawun, moving a little stiffly. His injured leg still gave him pain, particularly when he rode for any length of time. The side of his knee was twisted where the bone had fractured, and scars made knobbly patterns across it. “Those reports? Could they have been faked?”
“What are you saying?” Kalawun faced him.
“You always knew there was a traitor in your midst. The man who wrote the coded letter to Kaysan? You never found out who he was.”
“It was Khadir,” snapped Kalawun, “I’m certain of it. He was once an Assassin, a Shia. He wanted the Christians gone from these lands. It was him.”
“There was never any proof. You told me that yourself. You said—”
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” Kalawun cut across him. “Why didn’t you warn me that this Benito, or whoever he is, was lying? Why did his own people send him to me?”
“They didn’t know he would do this. The Venetian consul agreed he should approach you last autumn to ask you to intervene in the conflict over Tripoli. Not with military action, but as an impartial negotiator. I was sent in this party, but I never made it to Cairo. Angelo tried to kill me. My life was saved, but I was wounded and it was weeks before I was able to follow.” Kalawun was quiet, listening. “When I arrived in Cairo,” continued Will, “I found that you had led your army into Palestine. I discovered through one of the citadel’s servants that you were headed for Tripoli, and I sold what little I had on me in return for passage in a trade caravan traveling to Damascus. When I made it back to Acre, the grand master sent an envoy to Tripoli to warn them of your approach and sent a delegation to you in the hope of entering into negotiations. But the rulers of Tripoli wouldn’t believe him and you wouldn’t agree to see his man.” Will watched Kalawun turn away. “We tried to stop this, my lord, believe me. But it seemed that ...” He frowned. “It seemed you wanted this.”
“I didn’t want it,” replied Kalawun, looking back at him. “My men ...” He lifted a hand, then let it fall. “They needed this. I have held their reins too tightly for too long. Sooner or later, they would have turned on me. Sometimes, Campbell, I think we were born in the wrong time. I am no longer sure that peace between our faiths can ever work. You and I, we have given up so much for this cause and yet it seems we have hardly changed a thing. My own son ...” Kalawun exhaled wearily. “My own son wants the Franks gone.”
“It has to work,” answered Will. “Or this conflict will go on, and a thousand years from now both our peoples will still be dying. Stop the assault, my lord. Call your forces back. This battle threatens to destroy what we have given up so much for.”
“I cannot. They are committed. I have lost men to this battle. If I call them back now, I might lose my position.”
“And the people inside?” demanded Will. “What will they lose?”
Kalawun looked up as a blare of horns rose. “The signal.” Snatching up Will’s sword belt, he handed it to him. “Put this on,” he added, passing him a helmet.
Strapping his falchion around his waist and pushing the helmet down over his head, Will followed Kalawun out of the royal pavilion and into the camp, where soldiers were hastening to mount horses.
“The arrow went up a moment ago, my Lord Sultan,” called a Mamluk officer, hurrying toward Kalawun. “Officer Nasir’s troops are on the move.” He pointed north.
Will and Kalawun saw a company of fifty or so men, riding swiftly across the plain toward a gate in the northeastern walls.
“Dear God,” murmured Will, stepping forward. Even at this distance, he could see that the gate was open. The
mandjaniks’
stones were still flying up against the southeastern walls. All of the focus of the city was fixed there. By the time anyone noticed the danger, the Mamluks would be inside. “You have to stop them,” he urged Kalawun, as the officer turned away to help direct the men sprinting to their horses.
Kalawun didn’t answer. His gaze had moved from the riders to a figure waiting nearby, watching the company approach the gate. Kalawun strode toward him. “Angelo Vitturi,” he called out, his voice cutting across the shouts of the men and the blare of horns.